g the
progress of a storm of exceptional fury, of which the poet Petrarch has
left us a vivid account in one of his letters, the greater part of the
devoted city was swept away by a tidal wave. The whole line of quays
stretching from the headland by the Cappuccini to the point of Atrani on
the east, together with churches, palaces, and warehouses, was now
swallowed up by the surging waters and engulfed for ever in the depths of
the sea; and thus the very element that had brought wealth, power, and
prosperity to Amalfi in the past now proved the direct cause of her final
calamity. With this fearful cataclysm of Nature following upon the heels
of its political extinction, we can hardly wonder at the rapid decline of
this "Athens of the Middle Ages," whose population has now sunk to about
one seventh part of the 50,000 citizens it once boasted in the far distant
days of her maritime supremacy.

Reflecting upon the famous past of this ancient city, let us descend the
steep pathway from the terrace of the Cappuccini to visit the crowded
beach below. Here we find ourselves in the midst of a cheerful animated
throng, engaged in mending nets, in painting boats, and in other
occupations connected with a sea-faring life. The tall fantastic houses
with balconied windows that line the curve of the sea-shore, the
glistening sands and the brown-legged, gay-capped fishermen, combine to
present a charming picture of southern Italian life, so that we could
gladly linger in observing the ever-changing scenes of life and industry.
But we cannot tarry long, for the ubiquitous beggars who have begun to
pester us ever since we passed the hotel gates have meantime dogged our
descending footsteps, and their forces have been recruited on the way
hither by many willing assistants. No doubt the vast majority of the
Amalfitani are hard working and self-respecting, for the little town
possesses maccaroni factories and old-established paper mills of no small
importance, yet it is obvious that a considerable portion of the total
population and at least one-half of all the children spend their whole
time in demanding alms of strangers. Before, behind, and from a distance
arises the ceaseless cry of "_Qual co' signor'! Fame! Fame!_" in hateful
tones of make-belief misery, and these whining appeals are aided by all
the expressive pantomimic gestures of the South. You are placed on the
horns of a dilemma: give, and the report that a generous and fabulousl